


Sympathetic Vibrations

by mackenziebutterschnapps (hannibalsbattlebot)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsbattlebot/pseuds/mackenziebutterschnapps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Are you going to shoot me?" he said. With someone else he might have pushed. Rather anticlimactic, isn't it? But he wasn't trying to score points. He was curious and looking for an honest answer. Will had drawn a gun on him twice, both times to his face. Hannibal suspected that it might be easier for Will to shoot him in the back of the head, if just killing him was what he wanted.</p><p>When the life-ending shot did not come, Hannibal dared to turn his head to present his profile. He heard the clatter of metal hitting tile and from the corner of his eye saw a dark figure move from behind a pillar.</p><p>"Now I'm armed with nothing but my hands," Will said.</p><p>"As am I," Hannibal said raising his empty hands slowly.</p><p>(from a tumblr prompt--there will be hugs)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sympathetic Vibrations

First it was the sound of footsteps that alerted Hannibal. Someone else was walking on the portico, keeping pace but remaining unseen. He was being watched, and the other person's pace was matching his own. A gust of breeze from that direction brought Hannibal information on his surroundings and in a moment, he separated out the scent of his shadow.

He stopped, but made no other movements.

"Are you going to shoot me?" he said. With someone else he might have pushed. _Rather anticlimactic, isn't it?_ But he wasn't trying to score points. He was curious and looking for an honest answer. Will had drawn a gun on him twice, both times to his face. Hannibal suspected that it might be easier for Will to shoot him in the back of the head, if just killing him was what he wanted.

When the life-ending shot did not come, Hannibal dared to turn his head to present his profile. He heard the clatter of metal hitting tile and from the corner of his eye saw a dark figure move from behind a pillar.

"Now I'm armed with nothing but my hands," Will said.

"As am I," Hannibal said, raising his empty hands slowly.

"No secret blade tucked in your sock?" Will replied, mockingly. But even as he spoke he came out of the shade of the pillar.

Hannibal could see him more clearly. Will was looking well. In the pink of health and, Hannibal thought with slight jealousy, well-nourished.

"You would either shoot me from afar or want it to be personal. There was no point in walking the middle ground."

Hannibal turned just in time to see Will rushing at him. He thought there would be more discussion. He counted on the reluctance that he thought would have set in while Will had been stalking from the shadows.

Will led with his shoulder and there was no reluctance when he made contact.  Instead of dodging, Hannibal hunkered down to take it like a football tackle. His shoes slid a little on the tile, but he kept his footing. Will clutched at Hannibal's arms and tried to throw him off balance to the side. When that didn't work, Will backed up and swung out, his fist catching Hannibal under the jaw. He hadn't backed up enough to give the punch sufficient momentum. Hannibal recovered faster than Will had expected and counterpunched. There was still not enough room to throw a good punch, so while Hannibal struck Will squarely on the cheek he knew it wasn't his best work.

They fell back away from each other and Hannibal crouched, ready for another strike. Will swung again, Hannibal feinted to the side and the blow missed him. Hannibal was ready to bring his elbow down on Will's back, but Will kicked out, hitting him painfully in the knee, causing it to buckle and driving him down.  The effort unbalanced Will. Hannibal lunged and knocked Will's stable leg from under him, and he toppled. Hannibal held down Will's legs, but Will managed to wrench one free and kick. Will hadn't been able to aim, but it was a lucky glancing kick that caught Hannibal in the nose. The blood started to flow.

Hannibal tried to turn Will over and get him on his back, to pin him down, but he couldn't get a handle on a fulcrum to turn him—hip or shoulders or rib cage. Will dragged himself forward and kicked again, his heel hitting Hannibal in the curve where his neck joined his shoulder and forcing him back.

They both got to their feet. Hannibal could feel something grinding in his knee. He could stand, but it would hurt him later once the adrenalin wore off.  Will rushed him again, aiming a little lower and catching him mid-body, slamming him against one of the pillars and they slid to the floor together.  Hannibal cuffed Will on the ear and Will almost went sprawling on his face, landing painfully on his shoulder instead. He yelped and rolled off it as fast as he could. He thought about staggering to his feet again, but Hannibal wasn't moving. He looked winded. Will sat, far enough away that he could get to his feet again if Hannibal went for him. He moved his injured arm experimentally, testing its ability should he need it again.

Hannibal watched the procedure with hooded eyes. He could tell from the way Will moved there was no major damage done. Hannibal's nose wasn't broken and the blood was slowing. He drew up one knee and finally got a good look at Will. They hadn't been this close in ages. He had sprung from the shadows so quickly Hannibal had not had time to really accept that he was there, in the flesh. Not something conjured from his own imagination.

His imagination was very good and he could replicate in his mind Will's voice and face, but the small unpredictable quality Will possessed made it impossible for him to make a fully satisfying copy.

That didn't stop him from trying. His mind turned over the problem obsessively. Hannibal had run mental fingers over the contours of this face. Even when he tried to distract himself, he was pulled back into contemplation. It was a current he had to consciously fight. So many sketches that had started out as one thing, wound up going down this familiar road of flesh and bone.

Italy was a country full of dark-haired men. He could think of dozens of times he has seen Will, and he froze between fight and flight. Then the moment passed and as Hannibal looked at him, the man became a stranger.

This time, Will was real. The part of Hannibal's mind that was always looking, always scanning the crowd whether he was aware of it or not, finally rested. The relief of setting down a burden he didn't realize he was holding was immense. He started to laugh, a throaty sound that took Will by surprise.  He recognized it. It was the language of feelings that can't be expressed in words, only in utterances that come without forming the conscious intent, like the wail of sorrow at a tragedy or a moan of passion.

Hannibal had a look on his face that Will had never seen: a look of joy. Will had seen him looked pleased and self-satisfied, often proud. But this was genuine, childlike joy.

"You are here. You are alive," Hannibal said.

Will remembered the centering exercises with a sudden and surprising rush of nostalgia. _Location, time, name.  I am here. I am alive._

Hannibal reached out a hand and Will took it, allowing himself to be pulled in close. He was tired, he felt spent and worn out.  Hannibal wrapped his arms around Will and leaned in so Will could wrap his arms around Hannibal.

Now Will could also feel the laughing, a sympathetic vibration from one body to another. Will responded to it automatically. His own laugh coming at first reluctantly like a hiss through his back teeth and then in a burst. 

They laughed together and both felt slightly giddy. Will thought he was prepared for this confrontation, blood rushing and heart pounding. He had been ready for a consuming murderous rage. He had been counting on it to take him that last step. He hand't been prepared for a reunion with a friend he felt he had known a lifetime.

Hannibal held the back of Will's head to press him close and they swayed, just slightly. Will didn't feel trapped, not at all. He held on tighter.

His mind had betrayed him both sick and well. He couldn't trust it. For once he would trust only his instincts. No plan beyond the next few moments.  His eyes were closed, he existed in touch and scent only. He couldn't smell traces on the wind as Hannibal could, but pressed in so close it was hard to ignore.

He waited. He knew smell triggered memory and he counted on this last animal reaction: smell the predator, feel the fear. He took a breath.

He smelled wood smoke in Hannibal's clothes and what he thought of as the good honest sweat of physical activity. Hannibal smelled of leather and old books and the warm black spice of anise seed.  Even with the metallic underpinning of blood, Hannibal's scent didn't remind him of the kitchen, it reminded him of the office. Will didn't want to run or to rage, he wanted to stay.

"I can't let you go," he said. He meant both that he could not release his grip, but also that ultimately he could not let Hannibal go free, no matter how he may feel at this moment.

Hannibal had learned to take as much meaning from the things unsaid as from the words themselves.

"Then don't."

 

**Author's Note:**

> "The phenomenon of “sympathetic vibration,” whereby one plucked string causes another, tuned to the same pitch, to resonate in sympathy, has been understood since antiquity, and in the nineteenth century it operated as a scientific model for conceptualizing vibration as something that does not necessarily die out, but can be transmitted across distances and mediums."


End file.
